Art Appreciation
by QuimbyCub
Summary: Why is it so hard for everyone to understand that scars are an excelent art form. Face it; artists are complicated. Angela/Hodgins. Cutting, Self harm, etc. Changes POVs. Please review & critique. ***CHPTR 15 is *NEW* and *UPDATED*, PLEASE READ IT!
1. Control and Focus

**So, I wrote this story to blow off steam, and it started as a Brennan fic, but I like Angela better. Sue me (actually, don't). I really want feed back, especially once I get chapter three up. I hope you enjoy.**

**ALSO: I don't own the characters, or the setting, but the plot seems original, but I'm not going to profit so it doesn't matter.**

Booth had brought in the contents of a Civic that had sat in a shopping mall parking lot for 15 months. The sedan's trunk held the remains of a young girl, toddler young. The trunk contained bones, adipocere, clothes, and, a well loved teddy bear. The "meaty parts" and "squishy bits" had long since disintegrated, but being in the car kept the clothes, bear, and a calendar in perfect condition. The calendar was about a year old, and helped to confirm Brennan saying the bones were from last May. How a car with a body in the trunk could sit in a parking lot for over a year without being noticed was beyond anyone's imagination. And everyone was having trouble.

Booth, being a dad, took one look at the bones and got teary eyed (but everyone pretended not to notice). Dr. Brennan had quadruple checked the age of the child, then apologized to Booth for it ("Sorry, Booth, but I'm sure on this."). Cam looked over the crime scene, heard her team say "22 to 28 month old girl" and almost ran. They were upset, distressed, saddened. Then there were the rest of the squints: Zack was still in shock as these _were _the smallest remains he'd ever worked with. Hodgins wanted the bastard responsible dead; the killer had poured kitty-litter in the basin of the Honda's cargo hold. Cat litter absorbs the odor, and meant even less evidence.

Then there was Angela. She was to be working with the shattered pieces of the skull. The skull that had been bashed against a wall stud. But once it had been glued together well enough she would be asked to draw a "death mask". But she was really rattled by this one. Hodgins and Zack were working with the bones, cleaning them. Which meant Angela would have some down time before she would be needed. And she would take it. Angela could feel Brennan's eyes on her as she turned away. But she didn't care. She slipped away to her office for a few minutes of reprieve.

She hated working with kids. Swings, you know? She always felt differently when she was asked to work a child's case. She didn't know if it was because of how detached her best friend was able to remain or if it had something to do with how much angrier Hodgins got (so hot, by the way), but something made it harder to stay in control. And that's when it hit her.

Control. She sighed, feeling the cloud of tension thicken in her chest. Angela managed to get into her office without being stopped; she was focused on one thing. Getting the control back. By any means possible.

**No SI until ch3, really, but it'll be heavy from then on out, if you don't like don't read. This won't be smut, but I want to know if anyone thinks the rating is "off".  
Loves, Q**


	2. Try new things

**This chapter talks about Angela growing up in, like, 19... uhm, I'm a writer not a mathematician, but in the past, when she was thirteen, and she learned how great cutting was, or is... anyway, how it started.**

Growing up, Angela spent a good deal of her time alone. She was an only child. Her dad worked away, a lot. And even when she had a friends, or a significant other, she would feel lonely. Powerless.

There were times when she would do anything to fill the void. That's why she picked up art, it helped her break the boredom, to connect, with herself, others. She could communicate through her art, too. Or sometimes she'd just use it to cheer herself. She would draw, paint, sculpt, she played with every medium, you name it. She loved it. And she was good. Damn good. She found new ways to express herself. She'd find techniques through museums, art books, some she'd make up, and sometimes her friends would give her ideas. Friends like Randi.

Thirteen-year-old Angela Gibbons was not one to be even tempered, bordered on bipolar. Even as far as teenage girls go, she could be moody. But she was almost always able to use her art to work past it. Sometimes her dad would get home from tour and be greeted by dozens of pink, yellow, bright and happy colored paintings; or just one dark, blue, black gloomy piece. Regardless of the creation's nature, he found someplace to display them, every last one. And Angela loved that, other people seeing her art. Admiring her work.

But it was one of the times Angela was home alone, well, home without her father, that she learned about other ways to present her work. One of the times that her dad was out of town, of the country, that she and Randi first met, bonded. What happened was,

Angela had gone to school one Thursday, like always, and been sitting through Chemistry. Angela liked art class, she liked English, she didn't even mind phys ed., but she had no need to learn anything about why hydrogen and – don't mix. So, since she could glance through the book, the morning of a test, and know the whole of the info, she never paid attention. For the most part she would fidget in her seat, watch the clock, pass notes, or draw in the margins of her composition book. She would doodle, and hope the teacher would forget to call on her.

But on this Thursday, Mr. Robbins, Angela's a-hole chem-lab teacher, forgot to forget to call on her. So when Angela was snapped away from a growing frame of delicate morning glory vines (that were circling her copy of the Periodic Table), she was not happy. "Miss Gibbons, I asked how many protons are in seven Neon atoms."

Angela looked up, sighed, and, since she knew there was no chance of guessing, she looked her teacher right in the eye and "If you're qualified to teach this class, then why are you asking me?" The class erupted with laughter. And Mr. Robbins said nothing. He pointed to Angela, then to the door. She got up, and walked out.

She was being sent to the principle's office, but she took her time, figured it wouldn't hurt to cool off, wash her face. The headmaster knew her well enough to know that she'd show…Eventually. But Angela was still pissed, even if she had earned her consequence. So, being angry, when she pushed into the girls' room she half yelled, half growled her discontent.

"Arrrrgghhh!" She smacked her palm flat to the tiled wall. "Oww!" At this point, a two syllable exclamatory was beyond her. She shook her hand and went to run cold water from the sink over her stinging skin. She had the faucet going, the water running cool and clear, and was about to splash water on her face, when one of the stall doors swung open.

Angela watched from where she was, using the mirror as a guide, and waited to see if she knew the girl. This girl wore the school uniform, as required, but made every effort to rebel. For starters, she wore the girls' top (way too tight), and boys' slacks (way to small). She wore her hair in what could only be referred to as a faux-hawk, and had streaked it school colors. Yes, Angela knew this girl, but only by face, not name.

"What's gotten you so pissed, Princess?" the girl barked.

Angela made eye contact with her reflection, and shook her head, her hair falling into her eyes. "Not a princess." was all she could spit out.

"Okay," tough chick reasoned, "So what's wrong?" This was an actual sincere inquiry.

"I'm 'posed to go to the office." She was solemn when she said this.

"What'd you do?" Tough girl asked. "Or at least tell me which over-paid prick is sending you."

"Robbins. Chemistry. I—I, well, I wasn't paying attention," Angela turned to face her schoolmate, who was now leaning against a wall. "And he called on me, and I kinda, well, implied that he wasn't qualified to teach."

"He isn't." Though girl smiled, "But I see why he would get irate. Everyone laughed, right?"

"Uh-huh. How'd you know that?" Angela was amazed by this older girl's insight.

"Lucky guess. I'm Randi, by the way. I'm in ninth grade." Angela was relieved to hear Randi introduce herself.

"Angie." Angela preferred her nickname, when possible, "I'm in grade—"

"Seven. Yeah, that's all Robbins teaches, chem., anyway."

"Yeah, I heard that."

"So, do you enjoy hurting yourself when you're upset?" Randi nodded to the wall.

"Oh," Angela blushed, "I dunno, I guess I do, yeah."  
"Well, keep it up, you're liable to break your hand like that." Randi bent down to tie her shoe. Then glanced up.

"What?" Angela could practically read minds, and Randi was thinking, something. "What is it?" she laughed.

"It is what it is." Randi replied. "No, really, if you can deal with the pain, I may have a less… idiotic option."

Angela raised a eyebrow, "What do you have in mind?"

Randi straightened up, "You ever tried cutting?"

**I think I'll keep jumping from past to present, maybe even change point of view, I'll warn you if I do that, though. Review, cause I'll be a while, my mom doesn't like me to write about SI, esp. on her computer, and mine is self-destructing(and not in the fun way).  
Bright side: When I do re post it'll be two or three chapters.**

**Loves you, Q**


	3. A is for Angela

**This is the first si scene, it takes up where ch 1 ended. I wrote it as one chap and split it into two parts. so this is only half the scene. I love to read so please review.**

Angela let the glass double doors swish shut as she entered her office. Once inside, she stood behind her desk and pulled open the top, left-hand drawer. The runners squealed in a whisper when she tugged and the shelf. She then removed a small, leather-bound notepad. She flipped about half-way through the book, to the first blank page, and grabbed a pen. She scribbled down the date, then glanced at her computer monitor and jotted down the time, "1434" for 2:34 pm, and finally her location, "My office, the Jeff.". Satisfied with her documentation, Angela turned the book over, to its back cover, and from the zippered pocket she slid out a razor blade.

She polished the blade with the hem of her shirt, making it slightly cleaner. But that was when she remembered something; she hadn't _hurt herself_ in almost four years (three years, ten months, and seventeen days, but who's counting), and that was a lot longer than she and Hodgins had been together. And Hodgins didn't know…yet. Brennan, in fact, was the only coworker who knew about the self-mutilation. And Angela liked it that way. But how could she cut without Hodgins seeing it?

_Okay, well, what about junkie spots: back of the knees, between the toes…NO, too sensitive. Same goes for behind the ears, or on the feet… Wait! Feet, that could work. _Angela walked over to her couch, the yellow leather groaning when she sat. She glanced around, insuring that she was out of sight, and curled her left foot under her, placing her right in her lap. Cautiously, she unbuckled her sandal and set it next to her on the sofa cushion. Her trousers were exceptionally long that day, so she had to push the offending article up, and in doing so gained access to her ankle. Angela rubbed her foot lightly, then she found the spot: Above the space between her first and second toes, about an inch and half up, where there were no veins, just clean skin. (Angela had never realized how many little blue lines were on her feet, but maybe she was really well hydrated or cold that day.)

So, after finding the location, she pushed the razor to her skin. Then, in her first movements she pressed the metal into her skin and drew a short , but deep, line across her pale skin. She never cried when she cut, not even now, but she felt no shame in enjoying the sting of her skin breaking., of the mental fog's severance. Angela allowed the injury to fill with wine, watching the tear satiate, only mopping it away when the crimson threatened to spill.

Angela was feeling better, except for that hideous gash. She couldn't just leave it like _that_. When ever she cut, she made it beautiful, made herself pretty. This red line failed to that. She looked at line and decided to make it one leg of an "A" for "Angela". In high school, she'd often carved a boyfriend's name into her thigh or wrist, make who was hurting part of the real hurt. So she etched a second, shallower, line at a fifty degree angle from the first, absorbing some of it's drainage immediately. She took a deep breath and could feel her office, all her surroundings, slipping from her awareness. And she was fine with that.

She wanted to finish her work with a deep connecting line, that formed the bridge of the "A". So she placed the edge on one line and drug it to the opposite cord. Then back, and forth, and back again. She could feel the tissues tearing, breaking, splitting, like denim, under the tool. Again she felt the floating and distance that comes from cutting deep. Angela was pulling the blade across one more when her office door swung open.

"Hey, I got the skull back together well enough that--" Hodgins stopped cold, and registered what Angela was doing, had just done. "Angela?" He dropped the reconstruction on a swivel chair before rushing over to his bleeding inamorata. "Baby, are you oka--?" Hodgins was cut short by what he saw.


	4. 3 years, 10 months But it's over

When Angela felt the doors open the razor slipped, and she cut deeper than was intended. She whispered "shit" and tried to wish herself out of there. So, in an attempt to launch damage control, she had grabbed a tissue and tried to cover her foot, and pull her trouser leg into place all at once. But Hodgins was on her in an instant, pushing her hands away, and pressing Kleenex over the damage. He knelt before her so he could meet downcast gaze. "What happened?"

This entire time Angela had done very little to acknowledge her beau's presence. She had not said anything, nor had she tried to explain herself. She didn't fight him, though, so that was good. Hodgins glanced up from her foot and saw her trying to bury the razor into the sofa cushion. He gripped her wrist and pried the metal piece from her fingers, but he still held down on her cut, stopping the blood flow. Hodgins removed the paper so he could get another look at the wound, and he wished he hadn't. He was taken aback by what he saw: not only were these cuts deep, but they formed a pattern, an "A".

"Angela?" Hodgins tried, in vain, bring his love back to him. "Okay, sweetie, I'm gonna get a first aid kit." He turned to leave but turned back to could help her move her legs onto the bench and stretch out. "Just try to relax, and keep your foot elevated." Hodgins pushed a pillow under Angela's feet, and left her in search of the kit.

Dr. Hodgins scurried to his work station only to find that he doesn't keep any first aid supplies. But Dr. Brennan was bound to have something. So he darted off to Brennan's office. He was out of breath by the time he got there. "Dr. Brenan," he panted, sticking his head in the door way, "I need… do you… have a first… aid kit?"

Brennan stood to retrieve the metal lunchbox that she uses to house her bandages, and other lab essentials, but had to stop and ask; "What's wrong?" She looked past her collogue, "I didn't hear anything explode but…"

Hodgins stepped into the office. "It's… It's Angela." He whispered, "I think she cut herself." He stumbled over the words.

All the color drained from Brenan's face, she turned and grabbed her purse. "Is she in her office?" (Hodgins nodded.) "Okay. The kits on the bookshelf, blue tackle box, I'm going to go talk to her." Brennan had her hand on the door, Hodgins had his on the bookshelf, and she stopped, didn't even turn back, but gave instructions to the room. "I'll need you to wait five minutes. And, please. Don't. Tell. Anyone." And with that she ran into the hall.

Brennan rushed into Angela's office and screeched to a halt, giving herself time to think, even she knew to handle this carefully. Her friend was crashed on the couch. She lay with her head resting on one armrest, and her foot on the other, blood staining visible on the linen slacks. Her left side was to the wall. She had her left wrist over her eyes and her right arm clutched to her abdomen. "Angela? It's me." Brennan whispered across the room.

"Sweetie?" Angela asked, barely moving her lips, her whole body stiff and still.

"Yeah, it's me. Can I come in?" She answered and asked, knowing that Angela needed as much control as she could get. "Hodgins told me what you did." Not an accusatory statement, but a factual one.

"It's okay, you can come in." Angela tipped her chin a bit. "Are you mad at me?"

"I'm not mad, Ange, I could never be mad at you, not for something like this." Brennan lifted Angela's legs slightly and sat, then settled the legs across her lap. In a hushed voice Brennan asked for permission again. "Can I see?"

Angela's initial reaction was to retract her foot, but she gave it back, trusting her long-time ally. And with this motion she whimpered "Help", not "help me", just "help". She could feel the cool air hit her leg and marginally moist foot when Brennan pushed the cotton pinstripe away. Angela jumped slightly at the sensation.

Brennan, on the other hand, showed no surprise, disgust, or anything else that gave some impression of it affecting her. Her expression of unconditional love and concern stayed when she laid eyes on the severe cuts. Instead, the anthropologist dug through her purse and pulled out an Always maxi pad. She unfolded the green wrapped, but didn't pull it away. Angela had moved her arm and was watching, but she didn't question, remembering philo-genetic systematic, as Brennan pressed the sanitary napkin over the injured area.

"You're still loosing blood, Angela. You've cut really deep this time." Brennan lifted the makeshift bandage to look again. "You'll be okay." She reassured. "But, can you tell me what happened? I want to help."

Angela sighed, her cheeks pinking up a bit, and vehemently shook her head. "Nothing, nothing happened." Angela muddied. "No one said or didn't say anything. No one did or didn't do anything. Nothing happened or didn't happen." She stopped to inhale, "I just felt… dull." She lifted her head and the two almost held eye contact, but broke it quickly.

"And how do you feel now, Angela?" It wasn't a critical or teasing inquiry, it was an actual prompt asking Angela to run a self inventory of sorts.

"I feel…" _How do I feel? _"A little foolish. Kind of embarrassed. Worried that Jack'll tell, or hate me, or something. But, still, I feel pretty. Better."

"First I'm glad you feel better, you should have come to me, but I'm glad you're okay." Brennan looked over her best friend: From the dark waves of tresses all the way to the pad still pressed to her foot and the painted red toenails that shared real-estate with it. "And, be rational, Hodgins loves you. He is 'over-the-moon, stupid in love' with you, his words. He wouldn't tell, Okay?"

Angela nodded. "But he did tell you, didn't he?" She murmured, then looked away again. She leant back against the arm rest, wishing she hadn't been walked in on, caught.

"Yes, but I asked, and he wouldn't have old me if he'd had his own Band-Aids." Brennan checked the cuts, "He probably doesn't even know that you did it on purpose. Mean, think. How--"

"He knows, Sweetie, he's not an idiot." Angela interrupted, definitively. "He took the razor from me."

It was at that moment that moment that Hodgins knocked on the glass. Brennan held up a finger, telling him to wait, and asked Angela, "Can he come in? He just wants to help you." When Angela nodded, Brennan waved Hodgins inside. He was toting a white lunchbox, the first aid kit. On his way to the back of the room, Hodgins grabbed a chair and drug it with him.

Hodgins watched Dr. Brennan as to what to do, to say. But she barely nodded to him before talking to Angela, distracting her while her damaged skin was being doctored. He removed the makeshift bandage and listened to the girls talk.

"Angela?" Brennan started, rubbing Angela's shins, "It's been so long, what happened?" Angel a shrugged. "Well," Brennan tried again. "How long has been?"

Uh… Three years, ten months. But its over now." Angela watched her fiancé rub an alcohol swab over flesh.

"No. You can't think of it like that," Brennan corrected "you're restarting. That's it." They pause to check Hodgins' progress. HE, in turn, kept glancing up at them.

"What should we tell him?" Angela asked, cutting Hodgins out of the discussion. "Everything?

"Everything."


	5. Time goes on

**Not my characters, themes, or locations. My words, my feelings. Move on.**

**Okay, welcome to the world's longest author's note. I wanted to thank my reviewers. And give an explanation to chapter four: I was trying to convey that Brennan not only knew about the SI, but had dealt with Angela's secret many times in the past. I know that very few people appreciate it when one of their favorite characters is given an issue. I got smacked upside the head for it when I first wrote this with Brennan as the main character, I know a lot of cutters who are in the system. Which brings me to why I choose Angela.**

**I like her best. I relate best to her. I feel like, as an artist, she is emotional, and that does become an issue. MadeofStars, cutters, like all addicts, are good at hiding things. Tmprnc7, your right about the triggers, I'll probably give myself a good reason that forces me to change the rating soon, anyway.**

**I really love this story, I know, I'm conceited for saying that, but I do. I don't mind criticism, but whatever. To be frank, I wrote this over the course of 7 months, picking it up when I could drum up the necessary emotions. I write for this when I need it, so that's kinda how I came up with the self-beautification, through projection myself onto Angela.**

**Yeah, yeah, this is an extremely short chapter, with an extremely long note. That's because it is more about keeping the story moving, not really giving info. Change of POV. I hope you like.**

"Did the nurse fix you up?" Principal Newan asks me when I reenter her stuffy office.

"Yeah." I sigh, waving my wrist in the air, and plopping into the chair across from her. I glare at her over the excessively polished maple desk. :I don't think it was that big a deal."

"I know you don't." condescending. "but I do have to call your father and inform him of your…actions." she says, picking up the phone and flipping through my file.

"Good luck." I scoff. "Daddy's not at home."

"I know that, too." Newan finishes dialing and pushes a stapled packet across the table top to me. It is a list of every hotel Daddy's staying at for the next three months, including room numbers. "Please connect me to room 422." she speaks to the person on the other end of the line.

"How come?" She ignores me so I look over the list. _Room 422 is either the… Las Vegas Hilton, or the New York Sheraton. My money's on New York. _

"Mr. Gibbons? Yes, this is Principal Newan," she interrupts my thoughts. "Yes, that's correct…" She's now clearly speaking with Daddy, her voice jumped a quarter octave.

I don't hear anything else, I study the wallpaper, and wait to get the phone from Newan. When I do, all I do is defend and explain myself, to Daddy, and cry some too. Though it doesn't seem to matter, I back home by three o'clock, back to the practically empty house. And when I'm getting ready for bed, and taking a shower, I catch a glace of the butterfly.

On my arm, just elbow my elbow, is the butterfly I'd carved on earlier. I can't help it, I pinch a razor from the workshop and draw in more of the animals. It becomes five fluttering creatures, etched in ruby, that swarm almost the my palm.

If they aren't covered tomorrow, Newan'll have me suspended. Some bull about how it's nothing to be proud of. I don't mind people seeing, I want them to see. I'm proud of my art. And isn't that half the fun of being an artist? The exhibition.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - - - - -- -

Dear Diary,

I've been cutting for almost six years, I'm 22. I haven't cut in a while and I keep having to lie to my… partners about why I have so many, uhm, unusual scars. The last girl I was with told me about laser. Like when you get a tattoo removed, and how it works on scars. I looked into, and I had it done! No more scars. I miss them, But I met this new guy, Kirk, and he seems nice. I'm glad I won't have to lie to him about it.

Angie

**Did you skip over my note? Shame on you, if you, that is. Scroll up and read it, please. I promise not to write a super long on like that again.**


	6. Trust, babe

"But you have to, Ange."

"No, Jack, I don't. I don't want to talk about it." I whimper angrily, looking down and away. "I won't talk about it."

Hodgins takes my hands in his, holding me at the kitchen table. I pull away from him and move to the overstuffed davenport in his den. I can hear him clearing the table, loading the dishwasher, being considerate by giving me some space. I hate him knowing, love that he cares. Hate that he cares more than I do, but love that he is trying to understand. Sweetie told him how it started, how she found out, how long, most of the big details, but he wants to hear it from me.

"Baby..?" Jack has followed me, it's his house, this is allowed, but I just look at him, pleading with my eyes _Drop it. Just drop it._ Will he? No. But I love him. "Hey, just... Just promise me that we will talk about it." he begs, all the love in the world in his voice.  
I nod, avoiding eye contact with his honest blue eyes. I'm not lying to him, but I wish I were. "Maybe after a few brinks, 'kay?" I compromise.

He smiles, "Yeah, baby. Yeah, that's fine." I love that he's rational. "You gotta be tired." I run my fingegrs trough my hair, my oily hair. "But before I lay down I should shower ." I look away. "Alone."

He nods, "Okay." to my surprise he isn't hurt. "Can I get in there first? I'll only be a second."

I nod and gather a clean towel and my pj's (this consists of a ratty camisole and a pair Jack's boxers) while I wait for the bathroom. Hodgie's done fast, so I don't wait long. I have never, ever, showered alone at his place. Not ever. But I've showered here enough that my shampoo and body wash have their own shelf in the master bath shower.

Jack's shower is a work of art. It's a walk-in, with walls of cobalt tile and tempered glass, held together with polished chrome, and (did I mention) it's a double.  
I turn on the hot water and strip. I climb in, mindful of my foot, and step into the warm spray. I take a bottle off the shelf and squeeze shampoo into my palm, lathering it into my thick hair. Rinse. I squirt passion fruit body wash onto a washcloth, scrub. Rinse.

I'm done, but I gotta do something else, I gotta cut. So I step away from the water, to the far end of the stall, and wring out my hair. I then reach for my razor, I wax so I only keep it around for touch ups, and usually it's on the soap dish. But it's not, neither are the replacement blades. "Hodgins", I huff, "Trust, babe." But I keep another razor blade, like the kind that's used to scrape paint off, above the shower frame.

I stand on my tip toe and reach up, following the line of the doorjam. I feel around, fingers fumbling. I start at one wall and trail my index finger across the top ledge of the shower's outer wall. If anyone looked in on me, they'd think I was checking for dust.

Then I feel something, not metallic, it feels like... paper. I pull it down and unfold it. One. Word. One word, and it almost makes me cry. In Jack's chicken-scratch, all-caps handwriting: "SORRY".

I slap the wall, hard, flip the faucet down, and leap, no, really, leap, from the water-closet. Fuming. I practically sprint into the bedroom, still sopping wet and stark naked. Hodgins,on the other hand, is fully clothed, and nestled into an armchair, reading Newsweek!

"What!" I yell, waving the note around, "The Hell!" he looks up. "Is this?!" I scream out.


	7. It's because I love her

**Welcome to Hodgins' brain. Kinda. As I said before, this happens long before Zack goes all "secret society" on us, and therefore before the Hodgela split. Hart Hanson's temporary insanity will not affect my story.**

Okay, I'll be honest; I shouldn't be so turned on by this. And I'm trying _hard_not to be. But when a beautiful, albeit angry, woman is standing in front of you NAKED, blood stops flowing north. I sigh. I'm thankful that I foresaw this little outburst and had Angie's silk robe folded in my lap. I drop my magazine to the floor and pick up the robe by the collar, I toss it to. "Do me a favor." I tell her when she catches it.

Angela rolls her eyes, almost protesting, but instead, she shrugs the cloak on over her shoulder, thankful for the refuge from the cold. (I had turned the air on so she would need clothes.) Angela perches herself on the edge of the bed, facing me. She seems to have calmed down some, but I don't risk moving to comfort her. She makes eye contact with me and, in only a moment, she tells me so much about what I have just done to her.

I can see what I always see when I look at her: The spirit, the stubborn will, and the love she feels for me. But those are subtle under tones, overpowered by despair. She looks vulnerable, her cheeks blushing from embarrassment, not the shower's distant heat. Shes rolling her bottom lip between her teeth, not biting, but she only does this when she's afraid to talk. Her hair has fallen in thick strands over her face, but she doesn't seem bothered enough to brush them away.

And then, there's her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes, normally the color of fresh coffee, now have a dusty quality about them. Her eyes show me just how much she needs me right now. And for what ever reason she can't tell me so.

"How'd you know?" she finally asks me.

"That you'd try again? You have Dr. Brennan to thank for that, she said you would." I stop and glance up. She needs me so badly, I have to be near her. So I get up and walk to the other side of the bed, and lie down, so that to look at me, to hold a conversation, she'll have to turn, at least a little. Angela listened to me, but she wasn't asking about that. "If you're asking about the razor..." she turns to look at me, yep, that's it. "That's because I shared an apartment with an alcoholic once, and he hid booze all over the place." I never look away from Angela, and she hasn't looked away from me. I look at her again, trying to calculate my next move. But she speaks before action, on my part, is necessary.

"But," She starts, swinging her legs onto the mattress so she is sitting with her back to the headboard, and not me. "Why'd you-- Why did--" she is on the brink of tears, I mean, she's been working herself up since she entered the room, but she's now to the point where she is gasping, kinda, for air while she speaks.

"I love you, Ange. And I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore." I look over to her, a little afraid of what I'll see. She's still too far for me to touch her, but too desperate for me not to comfort her. "I won't let you."

She looks up at me, teary-eyed, but no longer in hysterics. Then she rolls into me, pulling my arm around her. She rests her head on my shoulder, wet hair soaking through my shirt. And she sighs, contented, I think. Her palm she places on my chest. I use this as a chance to smell her hair, she knows this, as I am "a man of odd interests", and she seems to like that. God, I love her.

"Hodgie?" She asks after several moments.

She has broken my dream state, saved me from my own thoughts. "Yeah?" is a better response than what I'm thinking.

"Well, I mean, you seem really okay with all this. You're not freaked, or at least I don't think you are..." she stops.

"Yeah," I hope that wasn't an entire statement, because I don't know where she's going with this. "I'm cool under pressure. What's wrong with that?" I hint at humor.

"Nothing." an almost defensive reply. "except that," she's thinking aloud, "you're not." She looks up at me. This time I know what's being conceived. "Do you remember when we thought I was pregnant?" This is a statement.

I swallow. Hard.

"You do?" Another statement, she knows I do. "Good. And I remember you were supportive, you went out and bought that goddamned engagement ring. But you were panicked as hell. I could see it in your eyes, Jack."

She's right, completely. I was scared, not because I didn't love her, or that I didn't want it, and I knew it would have been mine... But we weren't ready for that, we're still not. And it had been a false alarm, I won't deny my relief. But I told her I still wanted to marry her, but she still declined. I loved her, I still love her. But she smart, and can tell when I'm lying or hiding something.

"Was it Brennan?" Angela prodded. "Did she te--"

"No, Dr. Brennan wouldn't have told me." She barely told me today. "To be honest, I kinda suspected it." I explain.

"Really?" She seems almost disappointed, like she thought she'd hid it better than that. "How did you..?"

"I just felt like you were holding back... And then there's that one scar. On your wrist..." I take her hand off my chest, turn it over, and rub my thumb across the elliptical scar above her right palm. "It's the only mark on your body."

"Yeah, dry ice." she lets me hold onto her, but she's stiff to my touch. "I, I had them all lasered off, about eight years ago, but," she hesitates "That," she tips her chin at the blemish "is only a few years old."

"Alright," I squeeze her shoulder. "Tell me something," I decide to draw her out a bit, with a non-threatening inquiry. "Why did you choose your feet?"

Angela looks away from me, "So..." she squeaks out, "so I wouldn't get caught."

She won't look at me, not even glance, and I don't understand what she means. "but you cut at work. You cut deep, baby." I try to explain to her without sounding accusatory. "And the number of shallow veins that up could have sliced open... There are so many other places;" I begin, rolling onto my elbow, "your arms," I run a hand up her arms, moving from her wrist to her forearm, bicep, and pausing there slightly, "or shoulder," again my hand moves over her skin, and I slide my hand under the collar of her robe. I rub her shoulder and clavicle with that gentle-firm touch she loves. "Chest," I continue my list, and motions, letting my fingertips trail over her breast. She shivers beneath me touch. "All would have been better." It takes all of my will power to remove my hand from her body, breaking the skin-to-skin contact. "Why couldn't you have cut there?" I feel as though I am scolding her, like a child, and that's not what either of us want. Well, not entirely.

**So, did you like? Review, even if you didn't. Also possible smut to come. That way I will feel fully justified in upping the rating to M.  
I loves you,  
So, Go forth and review!**


	8. The faults of Love

Hodgins is trying to have a serious conversation with me. A conversation I hadn't planned on having any time soon, especially not fully sober. And it's a conversation I can get out of. But before I do, Hodgins needs to understand. "You would have seen all those places," I stress, looking away from him. "I didn't think you'd see it. I didn't want you to see it." "Hm," he's thinking. "You could have slit a vein, because… Because you didn't want me to know you were upset?" I nod. "I didn't want to spook, or get mad, or…" I look up at him, "start SI-proofing the house…" "SI? Never mind, tell me later." He dismisses his lack of acronymic knowledge, and then puts his hand over mine. I feel the warmth and love radiating from this small touch. "I'm not spooked, I was worried. And I am not mad. What's there to be angry at you for? You slipped up, it happens." He pauses to tighten his grip around my torso and nuzzle my hair with his chin. "And I'm sorry the razor was such an issue, I wish it hadn't been. But I'm not completely sorry about it because, well, I don't want you hurting yourself. Plus it made you come and talk to me." He stops, this time I feel him kiss the top of my head. I then feel his pure blue eyes on me; I know I should say something, but what? "I love you." He whispers to me. "I know," I tell him, because, I do know. I know he loves me. When he tells me this I always want to resist, or protest, and this time I do. "But I don't know why." It's pitiful dry.

"Why I love you?" he asks in disbelief. "I love you because you are the most amazing, funny, sexy, smart, beautiful woman I know." He takes my hand in his, again, I look down at his hands, strong and gentle hands, but I won't look at his face. If I was smart I wouldn't have gotten caught. "And you overlook my minor faults, love me anyway. It's only fair for me to do the same to for you."

"'Minor faults', really?" I try to sound like I'm joking, not criticizing. "Self-mutilation is a 'minor fault'? Just what do I have to do to have a major fault!?"

"Have you killed anyone?" He asks, seriously, only a hint of humor in his voice.

"No." I shake my head, confused.

"You ever cheated on me?" He continues.

"No, how could you--" I am being a little defensive, but can you blame me?

"Convicted of a felony?"

"No, of course not. What are you getting at?" He smiles. "And although anything like that would qualify as a "major" fault, I'd still love you."

"But you can't." I insist.

"And yet, I do."

"But I'm pathetic." I spit out, venom on my breath. "I have zero control over my own impulses." I hope my voice is still strong. "You said so yourself, I could have killed my--"

"You wouldn't have." Jack interrupts me, empathetic. "You don't want to die anymore than I do. I can tell."

Okay, "But I'm a cutter. How can you sit there and tell me that you aren't totally repelled by something so repulsive!?"

"I can't." He admits, calmly. "Cutting is bad, you know that, and dangerous, you know that too. But I don't love a cutter, I love you."

Damn, he's persistent. "I just don't see how you could love me, still."

He traces the lines of my palm, "What do I have to do to make you see that I do?" He asks this almost sweetly, but though his voice is sweet, I see more when I look into his eyes. The crystal blue orbs are truly revealing; ten percent sweet, forty percent charm, thirty percent love, and twenty percent pure lust.

I roll my eyes, smile. "I believe you, I do." I really do. "I just don't understand how you are able to just get over it." I sigh, for what feels like the fiftieth time, "like it doesn't phase you, or you don't care."

"Hey… Don't say that. Don't even think it." He admonishes me. "Of course it bothers me. Yes, I'm worried, concerned. I would kill anyone who tries to hurt you." His speech drops off when I divert my gaze, obviously wounded. But he continues, setting his thumb under my chin and tipping my face up, and his tone is stronger, richer, than before. "Can you imagine how conflicted I am with this?" I laugh, a little.

"How can you believe that I wouldn't care if you were hurting yourself?"


	9. What would you lose?

**FYI: POV change mid-chapter. Also, smut to come in next chapters, if anyone is like totally against it, speak now or… Well, you know. Review when you're done, 'kay?**

Angela scooches up on the bed, her shoulder she rests against the headboard, so that she ends up sitting on her shins. She's facing me, but when her arms cross at her chest, I know I should worry. This almost kneeling pose is defensive. She's used it on me many times. She brings a thumb to her lips and contemplatively chews the nail; she rests the inferior elbow on the opposite palm. This is still a physical shield, but it has opened her slightly. I'll have to work to disarm her.

"Ange?"

"Because." She whimpers, "I didn't want you to. I didn't want you to be okay with it, I just didn't think you'd find out." she gulps. "And I hoped you wouldn't care because I don't care."

She's been speaking so quietly that I scare myself when I speak at a normal, conversational volume level. "If you don't car," I am actively countering her statement, "then it should be that much easier to stop." In my opinion this is a rational, and valid, argument.

"It should be but it's not." Angela shoots back at me. Now who's being oppositional? "I like it. I want to do it."

This strikes me as odd; she wants to keep hurting herself? I get that she wouldn't do it if she wasn't getting something out of it, but I figured that knowing what risks she's taking, she would want to stop, want to get help. But maybe it doesn't work that way.

"It's not like I haven't tried to stop, 'cause I have." she elaborates, "It just doesn't work."

"But you made it almost four years, what changed?" I have no idea what I'm doing here.

"I stopped wanting it." A simple honest answer, and with it her arms lower, the fingers intertwined, and come to rest on her lap. I'm in.

"Okay," I nod. "So, what else makes you cut?" I ask. "I mean, stress, right? And lack of..?" I leave the inquiry open.

"Stress? Yeah, and lack of focus, or control…" She stops to think, shifting slightly, "I guess…" She finally moves back to me, settling into my side again. "Loss of sensation." She nestled into me.

"Loss of sensation?" Hodgins asks me, almost like he's taken it personally.

"Yeah, you know, like that numb feeling, mental static." I try to articulate.

"Oh," he seems relieved, ooh, now I get it. I have to fight a giggle. "Okay, so, what would you lose if you stopped hurting yourself, forever?"

"A safety net." I reply, a gut reaction, but still accurate. "I like having something to fall back on. And, to be honest, I like the way it feels." And, to be honest, I never talk about this stuff, with anyone.

"The way it feels?" Jack keeps me participating in the conversation, makes me hold up my forty percent. "You mean the pain?"

Oh, boy. "Yes, sort of. I mean the pain does something for me, and, yeah, I like it, but it's not the only factor." I look at him; he's paying attention, looking at my face, watching my movements. More than that, he's caring about what I say, about me. I feel like I can trust him with what I have to say. "I like the feel of my skin splitting under my blade. I like feeling the fibers of flesh as I cut. If I burn, it's a cold feeling, and I can almost feel the tiny layers of epidermis singeing away." Someone should stop my rambling. But there's no one here. "A few times I've done other stuff, like punching a wall, it didn't help any. But when I can't cut, or don't feel like doing so, I've choked myself, with a rope, something, and the experience was semi-euphoric. It feels li--"

"Whoa," Hodgins jumps in; I think I've said too much. "You auto-asphyxiate?"

"Yeah," now I feel stupid, I shouldn't have said so much, I shouldn't have told him what I've done, I shou--

"Baby, you can't do that." He says this kind of slow, but with such definition that I wouldn't dare defy him.

"I know, Jack." I assure him, "I know, that's why I don't do that much, when I do though…" He doesn't need to hear this. I start to pull away from him, but when I move I feel his arm clamp around me. I'm not going anywhere.

"So you like pain? S&M type of pain or..?" He tests the waters.

"I've never tried it; I've never asked anyone for it. It sounds good though." I try to cover myself, incase he thinks it's disgusting or something.

"And you…" he stops, I cam see the little wheels turning behind his eyes.


	10. Almost

IMPORTANT: This should have another chapter before it, but I am having issues with my smut muse, I may add it in later.  
All you need to know is that, between chappies, Hodgins and Angela had sex. If you really need to know, I kinda pictured it as kinky sex. Anyway this is at least an hour afterward.

I love Jack. Really, I do. I love everything about him. Even his hair, his ridiculous beard, and how very little he tells me about his family. His voice, especially when he whispers my name, will send shivers down my spine. Those looks he'll send me from across the lab, the ones that translate to "You. Me. Lunch break. Storage closet. 'Kay?". That makes me want to jump him on the spot. I love how he comforts me when I need comforting. Oh and when he figures something out about bugs, soil, or particulates, and he gets all giddy over it, I can't help but laugh. Or when we both have to slow down to explain something to each other or the team, he always finds a way to turn it into 'Flirt Fest '08'.' And that's only a small part of the intellectual features.

When you get into the physical side of our relationship, he is amazing. Mind boggling. Just, like, wow. He asks me how and where I want him to touch. And tells me the same. The few, and I do mean few, times I haven't felt up to...ahem, it; he'll take no for answer, he'd be sympathetic. He plays along during role play. There's nothing he won't try once. For Christ's sakes we have a memorized safe word system. And, yes, short men really do have better leverage. And he has got to be the strongest man I've ever been with, and, let's face, that's saying something. But, look at him, what else would expect of him?

So, like I was saying, I love Jack. Everything about him, I love. So, going behind his back like this almost kills me. Almost. And I almost feel truly awful about it. He doesn't want me to cut, and I understand that. But I want to, and he doesn't quiet understand that. He doesn't want me to hurt myself, now. And I really don't think I'm ready to make that commitment, especially not now, when I am well within my three week trial period. (For three weeks after I cut, each time I cut, I am allowed to do so again without worrying about the "but I've made it this long" time restraint. A grace period, during which, if I decide to start cutting regularly, I can. After which I have to guilt myself for it.)

There was a time when I hurt myself regularly, every Sunday night between 10:30 pm and midnight. One of the biggest advantages to this system was that I knew when and where I would get my next fix. I always used the same X-acto knife, always on my wrist. I knew how hard to cut and how far I could go. I never got light-headed or nauseous. I never fainted or got an infection. I was great at it. And when I was a "white knuckle cutter" I avoided being caught, or being unsafe. But I moved past that. And now when I cut I use what I can, and that doesn't always include good judgment.

And perhaps that is why I have found myself here; on the floor of the master bath, with crimson dripping on to the ivory tile. It felt good to cut. Even though I was only minor-league distressed, it felt great. The sting of the blade, the warmth of my blood, the very liquid that keeps me alive, giving me such comfort, the little rivers forming from the slit, the metallic taste, that I know is in my blood, but I don't try to find it. I had used a box cutter blade; it had been under the insoles of a pair of old sneakers. I'd kept them in Jack's closet, just in case

The steel had been cold in my hand like it missed me. When I keep a blade with me it is warm, like it wishes to comfort me, but this time it is cold, and almost unwelcoming. Still, it felt right. My skin gave way to its aggressor with such resignation that I felt like it was supposed to happen, I was supposed to cut again. And even when I stared cleaning up, when I tried to mop the blood away, but it kept coming, the whole experience seemed almost normal. When the blood refuses to stop, however, I was forced into a slight panic.

This rarely happens. The blood usually clots after a few minutes. But when I pull the towel off a rack, because the toilet tissue can't cut it, I know that this time is different. I hold the white terry cloth to my shin, and I pray, really pray for the bleeding to stop, for Jack to stay asleep. But do to the results; I have decided to become an atheist. The towel has begun to change to crimson.

I finally pull the white, now redder, material away from my leg so I can assess the damage. I wish I hadn't. It's bad. Real bad. The line stretches halfway up from my leg, from my foot/ankle, up the inside of my shin. My guess is that its 10 inches long. Depth is undecipherable. But it's safe to say that the chasm is profound, and that is a biggie as far as "how serious is this?" I can dip the blade's edge into the gash and the sharp rim is covered, and then some.

I am so goddamned screwed. I wanted so badly to cut that I forgot all about the possible ramifications. I'm starting to feel vertigo set in. In fact I feel I am floating, r falling, or maybe even sinking. And why is the room getting dusky. Oh shit, it's getting kinda dark too. I should call for Hodgi…


	11. Stitching Skin

**Hey there, I hope there's life out there readingthis, let me know, 'kay? Also, I love writting for Jack, I like writing for Angela more, but I didn't think I would enjoy Jack's POV.**

I woke up when it was still dark out. But in the eerie shadows the moonlight cast I saw an empty space beside me. I was alone. I felt the sheets, they weren't cold, but Angela's residual body heat had dissipated. Where was she? I got up and followed the beam of light escaping from beneath the bathroom door. I've reached it, press my ear to the door, no sound, I knock.

"Angela?" I knock again. Still no answer. I listen again, but can't hear any movement. I got to check, I mean, she may not even be in there. Okay, one more knock. That's it. "Angela..?" I ask, turning the knob and cracking the door. "Ang--?" She's on the floor, she shows no response to my intrusion, she seems out of it, but she's awake. "Oh, god, Angela, can you hear me?" If she can she doesn't tell me. I move to shake her, you know get her back, but before I reach her I take another look at the room.

The vanity lights are off, but the connected closet has its lights on, and the room lights are dimly lit. The mirror is clear, the faucets all off. Angela has collapsed against the tub, her legs folded. One hand is limp in her lap, the other holds fast on a trapezoidal blade. Her leg had a hand towel pressed upon it, I remember the towel being white… Oh, never mind. There are even blood stains on the floor.

First thing I do is pry the blade away from her; I think it's from a utility knife. I take the towel off her leg, too, replacing it with a clean towel without even looking at the wound, not ready for that. I move Angela into my arms and lay her on the bath mat, then I grab a towel and fold it under her head. Now it's time for some real work. I dig below the sink for the imperial emergency kit. When I find it, I am truly thankful that Cam made us take EMT courses.

I press the towel to Angela's shin; I want to make sure the blood flow has slowed, if not stopped completely. I get an alcohol swab and rip the packet open, before I even glance at Angie's cut. I finally pull the towel away, and assess the damage. "Damnit, Angela…" I whisper. I figured it would be bad, since the blood was profuse, and the blade she'd had was quite sharp. But what I see on her leg is… worse than I thought she was capable of.

But there's no way for me to reach her at this time, just keep working. I rub the alcohol swab over the skin, and some of the wound, but can't detect any reaction. So I keep going, cleaning it well. From what I can tell, seeing the slit, she didn't pass out from blood loss. It was either the pain, which doesn't make sense, of the adrenaline, also seems unlikely. But she didn't lose a lot of blood, this is good. It means I won't be calling 911, I don't think Angela would live through the embarrassment, and besides, if she went to the hospital, they'd put her under psych evaluation.

Once the lesion is clean I dig out the suture kit. If I fix it myself a scar is inevitable, but it only seems logical that I do it, now. I find the needle, the nylon thread, and dip them in rubbing alcohol. I start on the short, tight stitches. They aren't pretty, but they will hold, and do they're job. Angela still hasn't come around, she's not out, but she's nonresponsive. When I finish and tie off the string I cut off the excess. I'm not worried about the injury. Her leg will heal well. She lost minimal blood, for the wound size. And she won't be going into shock. Physically she's fine, other than the giant cut on her leg.

I know she wasn't trying to kill herself. But she did something to get herself where she is. I figure she should be in bed. She's still in her robe, so I dress her in a nightgown. She's fading, fast; from exhaustion, fatigue, or who knows what. When I pick her up, cradling her in my arms, she manages to swing an arm over my shoulder in a poor attempt to hang on. I lay her in bed, and pull the comforter over her spent body and look at the clock. The green numbers are casting an unnerving light across the room. Its 4:23AM, I can't justify going back to sleep. I'll head down to the kitchen, make some coffee.


	12. The morning after

**Sorry about the break between chapters, I've had this on paper, but not typed. I have two directions going form my next chapter, I'll try to go with one, but I'll get it up as soon as I can.  
Anyway, I may be working up to actual smut, maybe not, I'll think about. Until then here's more of Angela.**

I wake up lost. The sunlight is what woke me; the light and the warmth. I don't know where I am. It's like I'm thinking in dense smog. I try to remember last night. Any glimmer of information would be appreciated. But, no luck. I turn my head to the right and see a window; when I turn my head to the left I see a clock (a binary clock) and a picture of Jack and myself at Great Falls last spring. I conclude from the binary that I am at Jack's and that it's almost 9:30, I'm late. Why didn't Hodgins wake me? And where the hell is he?  
I feel for him next to me, maybe he over slept too. I can't find him; instead, on his pillow I find a plastic baggie, a bottle of water, and a sheet of paper. I still haven't moved. So, without moving any more than I need to, I pick up the note and hold it in front of my face. "ANGELA—"It reads, in Jack's capitalized scribbles, "TAKE THESE PILLS BEFORE YOU TRY TO GET UP. PS ALREADY CALLED IN SICK. DON'T WORRY." I wouldn't worry, if I could remember last night, or if I could remember why Jack would call in sick, or figure out why 'before' has been stressed to such extremes. But when Jack gives an order, a rarity, I tend to humor him, if not follow it.  
So, I look at the bag. Sit up right, and examine the bag and its contents; two white pills. The larger pill is oblong, the other round, and scored across the middle. That's a pain killer. What would I need a pain killer for? What the hell did we do last night?  
I set the pills on the nightstand and swing my legs off the bed. _Time to find Jack._I tell myself. Then I stand up and—well, I try to stand up. When my feet hit the floor, the exact moment I shift my weight from the bed to the floor, all I feel is pain. This sharp intense pain that makes me scream…The front of my leg all along my shin, pain. And so I'm screaming louder than I can remember screaming in my entire life.  
If you've ever woken up with a cramp in your calf you'll understand what I'm feeling. It hurts like hellfire. Now multiply that by twenty. But this is the wrong part of my leg for a Charlie horse. I pull the blankets away from my leg and reveal a crucial clue into what happened last night. A sutured, ten inch cut stands out against my pale skin. I remember it now. I remember the bathroom, the pain, the blood, no pan, more blood, the darkness, and then nothing. When did I come to bed? I rub my forehead trying to think. How did I get these stitches? And where is Hodgins?  
My third question is answered immediately. Hodgins has bolted into the room. How loud was my scream? And stopped dead. He walks to me, kisses me. His kiss is more caring than passionate. Then he glances to the nightstand and sees the pills. "Why didn't you take the pills?" It's a statement, not really a question. "You need to," he picks up the baggie, "They will help."  
Before I can get a protest out he has pulled the pills out and opened the bottle of water. "This is ******chlorzoxazone**." He holds up a white tablet. "Muscle relaxant, it'll help keep you from having to scream, again." Hodgins holds the plastic bottle to my lips and tips some of the water into my mouth. He holds the pill to me lips and I suck it in, swallow. He gives me more water.  
"Thanks," I murmur.  
"Nuh-uh, there's this one, too." He holds the second pill in his palm. "And it is important."  
I take it, roll it between my fingers, pop it in my mouth, and swallow. I don't ask this time because whatever it is, I know it'll help. After I sip more water I decide to get the facts. "So if the first was a relaxant..? What was that?"  
"Don't get mad. You needed help last night, so I gave you Dyloject and Cefazolin, that's a pain killer and antibiotic. They aren't strong, but they'll work." He pauses, I wait for a conclusion. "Okay, so I don't have a variety of drugs, just what I think I'll need. And—"  
"Jack," I stress the "a" in his name, expressing obvious discontent. "What did you just give me?" I speak slowly, my tone heavy.  
"The second was Tramadol." He finally tells me.  
My eyes go wide. "Hodgins!" I gasp. He knows if I use his last name outside of work that he's in deep. "How do you have that shit on hand?"  
"He laughs, "Angela, just accept that you'll be okay," his voice lowers, "and don't ask questions."  
"Fine." I pout, ignoring his mob-like comment. "But could you please just tell me what happened? I can't remember a damn thing from last night."  
"Well," he sighs, "first we talked about what happened in your office. Then I tied you up and spanked you and we had wild, dirty se—"  
"Thanks, I remember that part." I cut him off. "After that, what happened?"  
"Oh," he smirks, a tad bit disappointed that he doesn't get to tell me about our love making, "I thought that you had gone to sleep, and maybe you did, but when I woke up I found you in the bathroom." He pauses and I give him an encouraging nod. He continues, all flirtiness gone from his speech. "You were bleeding and nonresponsive. You scared me."  
"Okay," I ignore his concern, "so, you fixed my leg, right?" he nods. "And how did I get back into bed?"  
"I carried you back, baby, you were really bad off." He sits next to me on the mattress and rubs my back. "That's also when I gave you the shot. That was also five hours ago." He waits for me to talk. I don't. He continues. "I'd like to check on the stitches. Do you mind if I—"  
"Go ahead." I bring my leg up onto the sheets. "How's it looking? 'S it okay?"  
Hodgins rubs his thumbs gently down either side of the cut. He doesn't touch the wound, yet, but he touches the skin all around it. It doesn't hurt, so I relax. With as much as Jack has drugged me, I shouldn't be feeling much of anything. He reaches to the bedside table and pulls several tissues from the box. _Fwip, frip, frip._  
My leg looks like someone drew tiny lines on my shin. That's how well Jack fixed me up; he's made the wound is practically flat. Jack has a tissue balled between his fingers and is blotting the cut. Now he's got a second Kleenex, he put it over the mouth of the water bottle and got it wet by tipping the bottle back, he's dabbing that one right on the line. The third tissue he swipes up the cut from my foot. Still no pain. He blows cool air across my skin. It feels fine.  
Finally, he smiles up at me and pats the sole of my foot. I move it back to the floor. "I did a really good job." He informs me, not arrogantly, though, more reassuring. "But I think you're gonna have a scar from it… If I pull the sutures out," he pauses. _Yes? _ I raise my eyebrows, _I'm listening._ Satisfied with my awareness, he finishes the thought, "And took you to the ER, they may be able t—"  
"No." I interrupt, strong, but distraught. : I-I can't." How to say this? "I mean, I'm fine with the scar. But if it bothers you…" I trail off.  
He's clearly puzzled. Why would it bother me?" I think that he honestly doesn't know.  
"You have to see it to. You'll probably see it more than I will." I care, but he's the one who'll have to look at it. "And what if it becomes a scar? You'll really be okay if I have a big blemish right there" I wave my hand at my leg "on my shin? It'll be ugly. I'll be ugly. I'll—"  
I stop talking. I stop talking because my mouth has been immobilized. I stop because Jack's tongue is drawing mine into his mouth. He has my lower lip between his teeth. He has a hand brushing against my neck; he is running the back of his hand from my collarbone to my neck, then my cheek. He is running his fingers through my tangled wavy hair. While his left hand is busy with my hair, his mouth with mine, his right hand has its own adventure planned.  
I feel the heat of his palm sliding from my waist to my chest, from my chest to my shoulder, shoulder to arm, and then returning. On the same path, his hand now reaches my waist and hip. His fingers dance up my front, pausing briefly to stroke my breast.  
He is good at what he does. Damn good. So good, at making me want him. So good at making the world melt. Make me melt. With him it feels natural, feels right, feels good. He never stops until I am ready to.  
So, when he pulls away, removes his hand, lips, everything, from my body; my only response comes in the form of a frustrated moan. I gram his hands and try to pull him back to me, to us. He resists. When he speaks, it takes me a moment to remember what we had been discussing, but his voice breaks my lusty daze enough that I can focus on his words.  
"You will always be beautiful." He's so calm. "You are beautiful, every part of you." He's almost persuasive, and I believe what he is telling me. "I don't ever want to hear you say anything to the contrary, okay?"  
I nod. Have I mentioned that I love him? Because I do.

**And I love Hodgins as well. Oh, please review, thanks. M**


	13. Let me help

**Sorry for the extended chapter break. I've been sick and neglecting my stories. I hope to update again, much sooner.**

I first found out about Angela's habit about a year after we started working together. We instantly "clicked" and became friends within a few months of my starting at the Jeffersonian. So I think it was about the time that I started trusting her that I learned of her secret. I think the experience is what sealed our friendship, and what got Ange to trust me.

She been dragging me to clubs any time we got off work early, which wasn't often. So one time, when we didn't have a case, or remains, or anything, she and I went to a dance club. It had been fun. Angela loved the music, the dancing, and the club atmosphere. I liked to watch the interactions and the way the music changed our behaviors and movements. By the end of the night we had both had a bit too much to drink, and would have stopped one another from doing anything regrettable, but like I said, we were slightly inebriated. I don't remember much about that night, except that we had gone home in separate cabs, and with men. Perhaps her night hadn't gone well. Looking back, I don't think I would have trusted the guy for a one nighter. Why hadn't I said anything? But I know that Angela and self mutilation go way back, back further than I'll ever know. Or want to know.

I had skipped into her office the very first chance I got. I had wanted to tell her about my night, and of course learn what happened with her. But when I'd pushed into her workspace and found her at her desk, she was crying. Her office wasn't set up the way it is now, her desk was off to one side and hidden from view unless you actually came in to the office. I'll admit, I encouraged her to rearrange the room, and to put her desk where it would be visible.

But her escritoire was not visible from the lab or the corridor. I never would have known if I hadn't gone in to see her. And so, since she was virtually invisible, she had been able to score her wrist with half a dozen little red lines. All superficial, but the one farthest from her hand had potential. I had grabbed tissues and blotted at my friend's wrist, appling the nesecary pressure as best I could. She didn't respond, much. She tried to push my hand away but the attempt had so little effort behind it that she barely touched me. I slowly gathered what had happened. She had hurt herself. I didn't know why. Just when, where, and how. The fresh cuts shown in the florescent lighting almost as bright as the bloody razor blade that had been abandoned on her desk.

I still don't have all the details of what happened with that guy. I can imagine them, but she's never told me, and I've never asked. I remember that she kept apologizing to me, saying she was sorry that I had to deal with it, that she should have been stronger, and a lot of other things that still don't make sense. She was worried, too. She insisted that I lock her office door. She also made me promise not to tell anyone. "Please, Bren" she had said, "Please… Keep this a secret."

I had promised. "I won't tell anyone, I promise, but you need to let me help." And she had.

I hope Dr. Hodgins has better luck getting her to talk than I've ever been able to. Maybe a different person that's asking the same questions won't get shut down as fast. Maybe he will. I'll call her cell at lunch to see how she's doing. Hodgins had called in sick for the both of them. When I relayed the message to Cam she'd muttered something about office romance and security cameras. I'll ignore her and see how I can do with half my team missing.

I was about to look back over the discovery site photos when Booth came into my office. I rolled my eyes, wishing him away so I wouldn't need to fabricate a story to explain--

"Where's your squint squad, Bones?" He asks when I look up.

I try to think, but that takes time. So I stall. "Good morning to you, too, Agent Booth." I sound condescending, I'm sure. But I don't want to deal with him right now.

"Yeah, morning, Bones." He shakes his head and settles back in one of the chairs near my desk. "But we've got a case and your lab is empty." He presses on.

"Zack is out there." I nod to the door. "And I thought you already found a suspect, and got a confession, you don't need us."

"Yeah, I did, but," he repeats his put-off speech pattern. "Hodgins and Angela aren't here. Did they elope?"

"No, Booth, they didn't." I sigh. "Angela's hurt and Hodgins stayed with her so he could take care of her and help her heal." I tap the photos from the file against the desktop, lining up the edges.

"What happened?" Booth asks, genuinely concerned, not nosey. "Is she gonna be okay?"

"Booth," I sigh, "I don't know. She worries me sometimes."

Booth leans forward and tries to force eye contact. I look down at the case file, trying to ignore him. He places a hand over the file, preventing me from opening it, much less reading the thing, and forcing me to look at him. Then in a slow, calm voice he repeats his inquiry. "What happened?"

I don't why I fight him. He figures everything out eventually. No matter what, he'll read me like a book. But this shouldn't be one of those times. This isn't about me, it's about Angela. "Booth, this isn't my secret to tell." I say this warily, as I am tired and don't want to argue with him.

"Alright." He concedes. "Then it's Angela's. What's going on"

"Booth." I half sigh half shout, out of frustration, at him, at Angela, and at myself. "I-I can't. I don't want to. Please, don't."

"Bones," I can sense a declaration on it's way. "Whatever it is, I can help, but I can't do anything until you tell me what the hell is going on!" He only yells when he's really frustrated, when he can't do anything. And now he's almost yelling at me. At me.

Of course, there's no use now. He's to that point where he's got me. I'm in a corner where I only have two choices; open up or pull back. Under most circumstances I would find his entrapment tactic annoying, and I would fight him off, fight his prying ways. But not right now. Right now I need him to pry. I need him to be supportive. I need him to ask "God" to help Angela. I need him to hug me when I cry. I need him to br strong for me. I need him to be. And he can't, unless I tell him the truth. Unless I let him.

"Okay," I give up. "But you need to promise me something." I check to see if he's paying attention. He is and he nods at me as I continue. "You have to promise not to look at her any differently. And you can't tell anyone, especially not Cam. And you have to promise not to let on to Angela that you know. Okay?" He must think I'm crazy, but I need him to understand how serious this is.

"Okay, Bones," Booth nods, "I won't tell anyone, I promise, but you need to let me help." And I do.

**Will Booth be able to help? How will he take this news? And how many times do you "Lather and rinse" after you repeat?And I'm planning to have the next chap be multi-POV ed. It will be chaotic, at best. -MPlease review.**


	14. Soup with Booth

**This is NOT the missing chapter. there may be two missing chapters. "This time it hurt" is and always will be the final chap (But will be revised). PS: Thank you Junesse my midnight muse of the day**

* * *

_  
"Okay, Bones," Booth nods, "I won't tell anyone, I promise, but you need to let me help."_

Bones told me something strange about Angela. Well, not strange, just unexpected. Bones told me the Angela had injured herself. On purpose. I had seen a dateline on it, where they gave it a clinical name: self mutilation, "cutting", but I thought it was for kids, or teenagers. I mean maybe you miss the rush of getting hurt and almost hurt when you get back with your troops(but you don't slit your wrist unless your on way out). Maybe you drink too much, drug too much, sleep around too much, fight too much, risk too much, gamble too much. Mental additions are still addictive as any street drug. People don't get that, especially not squints, Squints don't understand emotions.  
When I was in Vegas or Atlantic City, or at the tracks, or anywhere that I could put I bet down... You couldn't possibly understand, it was almost as good as catching bad guys. I even when I lost, I could remember the win, and I could get back to winning, just had to play. And in casinos the winning, the loosing, the excitement is overwhelming, consuming. But when I could get into a game, down to a table, or even sit through a lottery(on a slow day), I have something more that fun. And if I won, didn't just partake, but won. It's better than sex. And once you get into it, well me, anyway, I can't stop. I have to keep going, until they close, or I run out of money, with any luck it's because they're closing up, cause THAT means I did good.  
So yeah, gambling isn't a chemical thing, but it's addictive. And from what Bones told me Angela is addicted to cutting, she's not trying to duck out. So maybe I ca try and get my head around this "cutting" thing. You take hurt yourself,to feel . Is it numbing like alcohol? Or thrilling when your playing with your life, like breath play? Or is it sharpening, like meth, adrenaline? Tiring, exhausting, you'll get that with weed sometimes. Or does she tattoo herself? No, that didn't seem to be what Bones said. It could even be consuming, like gambling. I'd love to ask her some time. Would Angela even talk to me about it? I consider her a friend.

* * *

Bones is going to swap "posts" with Hogdins at lunch. She'll watch Angela, he'll come and work the case a little, keep Cam happy. But since Angela's kinda laid up Bones said she would bring soup for lunch. Well, vegans don't know how to find chicken soup in a Campbell's factory. So she asked me to pick some up from the diner that she could take to our missing squint. I was just turned back towards the lab and Bones called me. She said that she's needed in the office and can I please stay with Angela for a few hours until she can get away. And yes, they do still need Hodgins, fast.  
I cannot deny my partner anything. So I'm trying to park the truck outside Hogdins' mansion without smashing any landscaping. These efforts are... effective. I grab the big to-go cups of soup off the passenger floorboards and strode up to the front door. This door is made of a dark mahogany, and it and all its fixtures are old. I push in the door button and wait. But not long. Hodgins swings open the door with a smile. The smile vanishes as he looks over my shoulder to my empty car.  
"Where's Dr. Brennan?" He ask suspiciously. "Dr. Brennan said she was coming to see Ange at lunch."  
"Yeah," I grunt, two can be rude. "The squints are needed for the case. Bones sent me to take over until she's free." I step into the house and look around. I point to the left a bit and ask "Kitchen?"  
"Yeah," He replies, confused. "I don't think you really kno--"  
"I have a six year old son and I was a ranger," I b.s. my credentials so as not to betray Bones' trust. "Common cold, food poisoning, allergic reactions, poison oak and ivy, chicken pox, flu, casts on legs, arms, skulls... I can treat more than some hospitals out of my trucks glove box." I pause to smile. "I'm CPR certified, on humans, cats,dogs, and unofficially ferrets. I've been shot and blown up a few times. Short of falling off a horse and getting a neck injury I can help."  
Hodgins looks at me for a second. "I take it Dr. Brennan told you that Angela was sick, right?"  
I nod.  
"She has a laceration on her shin," I can tell he is only telling me because he thinks he has to. "She'll tell you about if she wants" AKA Don't ask her.  
"Okay, I'm good then." I look around the room once. "You need to get to the lab!" It's almost an order.  
"Seesh, alright." He grabs a leathery bag off the kitchen table, a coat, and heads toward the stairs. He walks half way up. Stops, and thinks about something, something that pains him. From his position he yells "Baby? I gotta go to the lab, 'kay? I love you," And hops back down the stairs. "Thanks, for this, Booth."  
I smile at how in love he is with her, how much he cares. "Jack." I call him back to me. "I know about what she" I jerk my head to the stairs, "what happened, what she did."  
He nods. The use of his first name seems to credit my accusation. He has a hand on the front door before he asks me. "Hey, Booth? How do resuscitate a ferret?"  
I laugh, shaking my head and tell him "I'd need a dead ferret to show you how."  
He smirks as he leaves. "Don't go looking for the conservatory."

* * *

I Fix the soup into two bowls, find spoons, and put them on a serving tray. I know that Angela is in the bedroom, but I don't know if the bedroom is in the house. I go up the stairs and follow the sunbeam from an open door and the sound of fast, choppy string music, violins, I think. I stop just short of the door jam and knock. *rap rap rap*. "Can I come in? I have soup?" I call in as much of a sing song as I can manage.  
"Booth?" Angela questions.  
"Yeah." I answer waving a hand. "I've been sent with food. Can I come in? Or do you need a minute?"  
"No." She says quickly. Then, "No, I, mean, come in." I entered the room slowly, trying not to intrude.  
"Oh, good. Hodgins and Bones were needed at the lab so Bones told me to come sit with you until she could make here." I set the tray on a chair beside the bed. As I walk into the room I and absorb every detail I can. Angela lying in bed, the water bottles on the nightstand, the pill bottles on the nightstand, the ice packs tossed to the foot of the bed, the bandages, fresh and not fresh, anti-infection ointment tube that had fallen to the floor, a washcloth sticking out from under the bed, a reddened/dry blood browned washcloth under the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Hodgins gave me something that made me pass out for most of the morning but other than that, I fine." She sits up and smiles a bright Angela smile. "So what'd you bring? It smell's great!"  
"Ah," I laugh, "That would be diner chicken soup. My specialty." I set the tray on her lap and wait for her to take a few sips before I'll touch mine. Now I have to worry about Bones, Cam, and Ange. Great. No, really, I like having them to protect.

After the soups I start to talk to Angela, I don't hint I just talk. "So, I made Bones tell me what happened. And If I understand it, you do that.." I falter.  
"Cut." Angela offers.  
"Right. You cut, and it's emotional?" I look up. "I'm asking you. I don't know."  
She thinks a bit. "I guess so."  
"Okay, well, different addictions, do you call cutting an addiction?" She nods vehemently. "Have varying effects." I ask about alcohol, say how they effect me, that sort of thing.  
"It's exhilarating, to me. I'm cheating death, but people whine about aches and pains and I just control mine. I can make them when and where I want. It makes me stronger than other people sometimes." She looks sad, embarrassed by this. But the she smiles a little bit. "Sometimes it's almost a game to get it right. There's a balance to it. You know, get the rush and adrenaline from taking that big risk, but not making a mistake that leaves you scarred for life. And taking risks with it, people notice, especially when you loose, and it's an easy way to loose loved ones. I mean they love when I win, the way I am to be around. As long as they don't know how I got that way. I wish that I could always win. Or at least that when I loose big, I remember well enough not to try again. I try to loose too much, sometimes," She looks up, I'm listening to her, it's like she's read my mind. "I try to loose so much that I'd be a damned fool to ever think I could win again. But I usually can win, it takes more than it used to, though. Do you know what I mean?" This is rhetorical, but I nod. "I have to risk more to get the same high that used to get."  
She's quiet and I smile at her. She's said so much just then that she has no idea.  
"Has Bones ever told you about when she and I went to a casino in Vegas?" I whisper.

* * *

Meanwhile across the street from Hodgins' House Brennan has parked her car and is eating a grilled cheese sandwich. She is not needed in the lab. But Booth is needed somewhere, lucky for him, his bossy-at-times partner got him there.

**Sigh, I'll update the final chapter as i fill in the middle bits. But I want the las chapter to be the last chapter, even if it gets bumped a few times. :) Review please, I hope some is reading this, even if you think its crap, tell me so I can fix it.**


	15. This time it hurt

**This is kind of digressed. I'll try hop back to the squints, but I can't find where I wrote that chapter. And This is something that I need to write. Now.  
** It's been just over two months since I last cut. And I'll admit that the last time I scared the shit out of myself. Not to mention Jack and Brennan. But I may have wanted to scare myself, to cut too deep, to go too far. Just so I'd never want to do it again. Maybe I accomplished that. Cause like I said, it's been two months since I last cut.  
The scar is still kinda itchy, cause of the healing, but it itches more when I feel like cutting. I've gone about two weeks without really really wanting to cut. But I do still think about it. Mostly I don't cut cause I can't jeopardize my relationships. I don't cut if I don't have a really good reason. So I guess nothing's happened to me lately. Some things have happened, of course. I have wanted to cut a few times. But Jack's been so helpful and so trusting and caring that I don't want to betray him or let him down. There was this one time, though, when I thought about breaking up with him so I could cut, that was about six weeks ago.  
Brennan's been tremendously helpful as well. I called her once, when Jack was out of town at an entomology seminar, and she drove over for a two-day sleep over. She let's me work out of her office if I don't feel safe. And she works in mine when she thinks I'm not going to be safe. Sometimes she'll send Jack to work with me. Bren doesn't trust, at all, much less the way Jack does. So it helps to have an overbearing, over reactive control-freak around. Especially when I loose my self control. I can call her to self control for me.  
There were about tn days where I was limping around the lab, right after I cut. Everyone asked what happened. So Jack started getting us up early and getting breakfast on the way to work. We could beat the droves in. Then he'd fabricate some reason for us to stay after everyone left. He'd keep me in my office as much as he could. I never told him to, he just did. I love him. I love that he protects me.  
Of course, at time I had to walk around, usually he'd walk with me and help me to not limp. I'm not kidding, I'd walk out of my office and Hodgins would just appear at my side. This only lasted three or four days since Cam told Hodgins that I don't need an escort to the restroom, copy room, or file closets. And if I do I can wait until we are on our breaks.  
That's when Cam first noticed my labored movements. I tried to walk normally, but it hurt to stress the skin. Cam asked what happened and I spent such a long time stalling that she finally offered: "Did you trip somewhere?" And of course I said I had. I said that I had tripped off a curb.

All in all, I've been doing pretty well. A few ups and downs are to be expected. Right?  
Well, that's what I am telling myself. I was typing a report on a seventeenth century vase from middle America, one that I had examined in storage, and I found something. See I was typing at Jack's desk, at home, in his den, it's very warm and cozy. The room is square with a fireplace a few curtained windows, maple accents, burgundy Berber carpet, creme paint on the walls. The desk is to the side, behind a set of chocolate leather chairs, a matching love seat, maple book shelves, and a considerably sized tv set. The desk, maple of course, is large, old, and has a bunch of sliding drawers and shelves. A black LCD Monitor sits on the desk's top, and a leather spinny chair rest behind. But all these things are good. Warm, cozy, comforting, and not at all the type of things that make someone want to slice their wrists.  
I should have known better than to go looking for a hair band in Hodgins' desk. I don't use it enough for me to have taken over. But I start opening drawers. Jack is out of town, family business, I wanted to stay out of it. I'm though about half the drawers when I get to the middle one. This compartment, really, has a sliding lid, and is a sort of wrist rest while you type. Well, I slide the cover over, seeing promising doodads, you know, thumb tacks, paperclips, gum... But on the far left hand side of the box are, you ready? Two X-acto knives. With replacement blades.  
My heart starts beating faster, the room tilts around me, me breath disconnects from my chest to my mouth. I pick up a knife and close the lid on the box. The blade catches the dim lights cast off from the fire. It's not clean, the triangle, and it's chipped. The tip is still sharp. So's the edge. I touch the top of the blade, the back, to my thumb and imagine what it's sharpened sibling would feel like. I roll the aluminium body in my palm as I watch the flames flit off the tool. I swallow the dry foam from the back mouth.  
"Nothing happened." I tell myself aloud. "You can't do this unless something happens." I sigh again. Fuck it. I think. I want this. I can't.  
I control "s" the document, pick up the craft knife, and I grab a bottle of vodka from the liquor cabinet and head to bed.

By the time I Get changed into my nightclothes and crawl into bed the bottle's half empty. The alcohol makes me tired but I'm only out for a few hours. I wake with a start and reach for the nightstand. Water? Light? I don't know what I am grabbing for, but I touch metal. I can't help myself, not this time, I'm too tired. I press the sharp into my thick skin of my palm. In the dark I don't see the skin split. I can't see the blood. I feel it, a little. But I press the knife's long edge straight into my flesh.  
And I cry. I cry out the way I had when I first got out of bed two months ago after Jack stitched up my leg. And I cry this way because it hurt. It hurt when I cut myself. That doesn't happen. Not to me. I don't... I don't understand... what happened. I turn on the lamp and place the blade a space below the slit on me hand. This time I press lightly and pull the tip across the heal of my left palm.  
This time I'm biting my lip. This time I whimper. This time I know that I feel the pain. And it is real pain. I am in real pain. I have blood running down my arm and tears running down my face. My shoulders are shuddering. I am sobbing, but I am laughing. It hurts like hell, right now, while I'm doing it, and I am... elated.

I grab the phone off the bedside table and dial Brennan. Who cares that it's 2:13am? I gotta talk to someone.  
"Brennan." A grogy voice answers.  
"Sweetie!" I exclaim. "I cut myself!" I'm very excited. "It hurt!"  
"Oh, god, Ange," Brennan sighs, awake, but tired. "Are you okay? Should I come over?"  
"No, Sweetie, you don't understand," I tell her. "It hurt. It's never hurt before."  
I hear her sit up and turn on a lamp. "So..." yawn "what do you need?"  
"Nothing." I smile."I'll talk to you tommorrow."  
"Oh, okay." yawn "But, are you..? Tell me" yawn "what you did."  
"I cut myself. Like I, you know, do." I say. "It hurt. I hated it. I don't want to do it again."  
"Good." she laughs. "So you good for tonight?" she yawns.  
"Yes, I'm great." I laugh back. "I'll see you tommorrow."  
I'll be wearing gloves and long sleaves for a month. But after that I'll be fine. I'm going to buy vitamin e oil before I come home, that way I can get started on making these scars go away. Maybe I'll even look into getting one last round of laser scar removal. Yeah, I think that sounds like a good idea.

**I think I'm done now. I'll do more SI stories, I have to. But this is done. I'll try to get that squint chapter up. but it's not vital.  
****Review please. Q**


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